SEED

(image source: http://mindsparkenigma.blogspot.com.au/2010/04/seed.html)

The seed of pain

is planted in my left heel,

like a stone unnoticed until

I stand.

It speaks with each step:

Stop! What do you think you’re doing?

I think I’m walking.

It's something to do

besides food, alcohol, money, internet, sex -

the one thing I can think of

that should cause me no harm

while I avoid facing pain.

After some miles

The sprouting seed reaches up,

Unfolding tender leaves into my ankle

With every step now the pain blossoms

And shouts. But my right foot continues

To catch my forward movement.

After more miles

Pain is an established plant

Echoing when I’m off my foot,

Sending new shoots to my knee with each limp.

I know I must stop walking.

Soon. I sit down.

The seed of pain

is planted in my heart,

noticed no matter how hard I try not to.

Wine is no herbicide.

It speaks with each word I write:

Stop! what do you think you’re doing?

I think I’m facing myself finally,

or at least trying to stop

with the running away in every way I run,

To face whatever this root of truth is

So I write - name things,

Look it square.

After some time

the sprouting seed reaches up,

unfolding tender leaves into my tear ducts and sinuses.

With every word now pain blossoms,

and shouts – true names: 

Lost, Failed, Broken, Alone.

After more words

the plant is established, but not the same

as the stunted weed that started.

Now that I have let it live in the light,

It bears mysterious fruit:

Healing, peace, release, rest.

I know at some point I will

Let the garden go back to seed.

I don't like pain. No matter what grows.

So I will write as long as I can stand, then stop.

This is why it takes my heart

So long to get anywhere.